


Colours

by goldenzingy46



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 23:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46
Summary: Different coloursMean different thingsAnd can help you rememberThings that are lostIn the depths of your memoryOr is it better to forget?Than to remember the truth?Thanks for reading my little poem 😉





	Colours

**Author's Note:**

> I originally got the colours idea from one of the stories on A mistletoe bride, by Kate Mosse, but the story is my own.

Red is the colour of blood. The silver knife lays heavy in her hand, slightly stained with ruby, shining in the faint winter light. Drips and rivulets of crimson sliding over the top of her finger, drip, drip, drip. Scarlet staining once-white snow, drip, drip, drip. Red is the colour of war.

Green is the colour of envy. The jade dress that swirled in waves around her, the emerald necklace looped around her fingers. The gemstone in her ring. The colour of the dragon on her earring, hugging the sword, dripped in green, and the serpent cooled around it, hissing its victory below the dragon’s feet. Green is the colour of revenge.

Blue is the colour of the skץ. Laughter, running on the wind, that perfect cloudless sky matching the green dress and red gemstones, but a girl was watching silently, tears running down her face. Blue is the colour of sadness.

Orange is the colour of anger. Flames leapt in the hearth without shame, twisting serpents, sly and clever, raging dragons, a misguided winner. Hands turning the handle, giving this raging power freedom. Tongues licked at her wrist, and screams echoed over the house. The ring ached, heat searing into flesh, and it would never be removed. Pay a price for beauty. Earrings heated tighter to skin, never to be removed. Take it once and take it forever. Beauty. Orange is the colour of fire.

Purple is the colour of fear. Running feet, out of breath, claws clutching at her chest. Irises sprouted an endless trail along the edge of the path, and, without hesitating, she hurled herself into them. Stems crushed, purple staining the green, a dress marred forever. Purple is the colour of secrets.

Yellow is the colour of happiness. A yellow orb peeking over the edge of the horizon, erasing the hiding place. Footsteps running, taunting laughter floating between the crushed stems. Without another choice, she hauled herself up into the branches, up and up and up. Yellow is the colour of unveilment.

Pink is the colour of safety. Up in the tree, she sees a flash of pink. Pink roses were so pretty, and she slid herself down to look. Hands clasped around a flower. Crunching of footsteps, and the hands are less gentle. A rose is delicately plucked from its stem, and up and up it goes. Tied to the entrance to a hole in the wood of the tree, a flag for anyone looking for the girl curled inside the hole. The footsteps below stop, and laughter floats up.  
“Pink is a bit bright, don’t you think?”  
The girl in the tree waits, holding her breath, yet the voice does not try to follow. It waits, lurking silently, a cat waiting to pounce. The girl in the tree knows she is trapped, trapped like a princess in a fairytale. Pink is the colour of a princess.

Black is the colour of darkness. The colour of the night bestowed like a cloak to free her from her predator, the colour inside the hole in which she hides. The war seems to be over. The voice left, and never returned; the war cannot carry on with only once side. A war must always have two sides. Attack and Defense. A war is born. With only attack, a war dies. Black is the colour of The End.

White is the colour of peace. The girl in the tree emerges, breathing cool air like she has been denied it for so long. The flower’s petals were long ago stolen, and it hangs of the edge, dead, dead and bare, like everything else in the world. Snow blankets the group, soft and crisp and white. Under the ring on her finger, the traces of long-healed burns still remain, and she swiftly digs the sliver of the knife into it, freeing the ring from her finger forever. It rolls, softly and silently, before landing with a _plink!_ into the silvery river. Faded greens and purples hang around her reflection, and she decides to dye the dress white, and return home. Her family deserve to know the truth. White is the colour of truth. 

A/N Entered into the Poetry Games Teen Poets competition on 18/07/19 (British date)

**Author's Note:**

> If this is rubbish, let me know, I have no clue what I’m doing it just popped into my head :)


End file.
